


The Black Sail of the White Wolf

by shadeofthetrees



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other tags to be added, Pirate King!Geralt, Sailor Twink!Jaskier, just leave ciri alone okay, no beta we die like renfri, oh jeez on the high seas, sailing!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29409030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadeofthetrees/pseuds/shadeofthetrees
Summary: “Gentlemen, we sail to Skellige. There are reports of lesser pirates skulking the outer islands, and the Emperor has dispatched us to protect the good people of the Isles.” A smile curls to his flat lips. Cahir raises his glass and the officers around the table stand to join him. “The White Wolf’s ship has been spotted. And the rumor is he is carrying precious cargo.“I don’t care how many ships we burn or witcher dogs we have to slaughter: Princess Cirilla will be captured and returned to Nilfgaard.” Cahir downs his drink in one throw, and the table erupts in hearty cheers. Stregobor, standing next to Julian, pounds his fist on the table.Julian slaps on his performance smile and tosses back his wine.Well, fuck.**********After the fall of Cintra, Lieutenant Julian Pankratz of the Nilfgaardian Royal Navy defects from his post under Captain Cahir. Intent on finding the fleet of witcher pirates that roam the Skellige isles, Julian hopes to warn Pirate King Geralt that Nilfgaard is coming to capture Princess Cirilla before all out war erupts on the high seas.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 35





	The Black Sail of the White Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Liberties taken everywhere. This is a hodgepodge of book, game, and TV show canon to suit my whims and my whims are many. Did I obsessively watch _Horatio Hornblower_ in my youth and read all the _Master and Commander_ books? You can’t prove anything. 
> 
> If Clippy was still around, he would have had a stress breakdown at my inability to spell lieutenant correctly even after typing it for pages and pages. 
> 
> First time I've posted in over a decade, so I'm feeling a type of way. If you say something mean to me in the comments, I'll shatter. I make zero promises about a posting schedule because ya girl has mental instability, but she has also sketched out the whole fic and is working to fill it in. Chapter 2 is more or less finished and it just dumped 13 inches of snow on us here in seAtLE so nothing is real.

Julian Pankratz stands on the pier facing His Majesty’s _White Flame_ clutching his new commission - so fresh from the admiral's office that the wax seal confirming the appointment is still tacky - and for one fluttering minute thinks, _It’s not too late. I could leave right now, disappear into the crowd and never look back_. He feels his heart thudding at the base of his throat, and in that moment the sounds of the bustling port dim and all he can hear is the heavy flap of the sails looming above him, casting the dock in a dull shadow. 

He swallows, and it tastes like wet sand. His lieutenants’ uniform, also new, is crisp at the collar and pulls too tight, like a stranglehold. The buttons of his jacket and his shoes shine with a high gloss polish that he is unlikely to ever achieve again. 

He could leave. He could open his sea chest, remove his lute and flee. Ditch this ridiculous uniform, take to the open road, and - well, what? Travel from town to town, pedaling songs in exchange for a handful of coins or if he is lucky, a warm place to sleep? The scant few tunes he has to his name are little more than sea-shanties, and though the crew of his last ship enjoyed them, he hardly thinks they’ll pay his way on the Continent. 

Then there’s the issue of the trackers. Men who hunt deserters for coin, or sport. Julian has a small amount of combat training, but not enough to survive being hunted. He takes a last look at the chest at his feet, squares his shoulders, and steps up the ramp. 

The _White Flame_ is a 98-gun triple decker ship of the line, and the crown jewel of Emperor Emhyr van Emreis’s fleet. Julian could thank his father for such a renowned billet after passing his lieutenants exam with such abysmal marks, though thanks are hardly on his mind. He’d hoped that after four years of middling service as a midshipman, Julian could have returned to Oxenfurt and finished his degree in the seven liberal arts. It was that warm thought that kept him alive during those first years at sea, swinging sickeningly in his hammock below deck night after night. Instead, Julian finds himself here, stepping aboard the most prestigious ship in the navy, embarking on the next stage of a military career he neither wanted nor believed in. 

At the top of the gunnel ramp, Julian is greeted by the ship’s Sailing Master - Fringilla, he remembers from the manifest - who glances at his commission and turns to face the main deck, expression of passive boredom never wavering. Awash with able seamen readying lines, carrying supplies, and making adjustments to stowed gear, no one pays particular mind to the activities on this side of the deck. Business as usual for a ship this size readying to make way. 

“Lieutenant Pankratz, coming aboard!” Fringilla shouts, turning again to greet the next man behind Julian and effectively dismissing him. 

“Perfect, enormously helpful. The hospitality in the Navy, I swear.” Julian flags down a small, waifish looking seaman - can’t be more than 10 or 11. She makes the proper salute for his rank and before she can further prostrate herself, he gestures to his sea chest and bag on the pier, and asks for her to retrieve and stow them in the wardroom.

Ducking beneath two men carrying a bundle of oars, Julian heads toward the stern, seeking the tri-pointed hat that signals his immediate superior, Commander Stregobor, or the gold frock coat of the vessel's Captain, Cahir. Instead, Julian catches a glimpse of a familiar head of exceptionally red hair.

“Shani! Meliteli’s sweet bosom, I am so happy to see you. What are you doing here? And what the hell are you wearing?” Julian laughs, clutching at his friends’ shoulders as they embrace on the deck. Shani, beaming in her crisp black frock coat, pulls back from their hug just far enough that they are still holding to each other's arms. 

“It’s a Surgeon’s coat, you horses’ ass. I’ve passed my qualifiers.” 

“I’m so pleased! No, not for passing your exams - you were a shoe-in. For your excellent good fortune! I don’t know how you would have survived this posting without the blessing of my company.” 

“A blessing, you say? I think I’m cursed.” Shani says it with a wicked smile, but her green eyes dance with mirth. Her hair is shockingly red, cut short in the style of physicians. Julian thinks wildly that he has never been so happy to see another person. 

“Tsk. Mind your tongue. I technically outrank you.”

“Mmm.” Shani dismisses. She opens her mouth but closes it again, reconsidering her question. Julian raises his eyebrows. Shani’s always been a person to speak freely. She leans closer, dropping her voice slightly. “Did your commission state what our mission actually is? A bit weird, Nilfgaard deploying a small fleet, including their flagship, this soon after the fall of Cintra.”

Julian agrees, actually, and has been pondering that exact thing since word passed down that the _White Flame_ was being outfitted at the docks. But this is Shani’s first posting, and there’s no use worrying when they haven’t even embarked. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. We’ll patrol the North channel, skirt through Skellige, take in the salty sea air, and be back to port before winter. It’ll be more of a marine vacation than a naval exercise, you’ll see.”

*****

They settle in. Julian’s lieutenant's berth is narrow and smells already like unwashed bodies, but he is grateful to be done with nights in a hammock. He has the displeasure of meeting with Captain Cahir once before they set sail, and the man lives up to the rumors Julian caught while in port. He’s abrasive, dismissive, and keenly aware of the power his position affords him.

“Your father is the Earl of Lettehove, is he not?” Cahir doesn’t look up from his desk, where he is bent over a thick log book, quill scratching over the page. “You preferred to enlist rather than seek an education, or enter society as Viscount?”

“We agreed a career in the military was the proper step for my development, sir.” Julian, standing in the Captain’s office at rest, forces out the standard line he’s always used for these occasions. 

“And do you feel developed?”

“Of course, sir. It is an honor and privilege to serve Nilfgaard, the Eternal Empire,” Julian says, his tone flat.

“I see. Your father is correct, the military _is_ a decent place to hide away a disappointing heir until another can be procured. I assume that is why the Earl has announced his betrothal to a lesser Nilfgaardian Baroness?” Cahir still hasn’t looked up, but the upturn of his mouth implies he knows he’s caught Julian unaware. 

“I do hope the Baroness can fulfill his wishes, lest she too find herself hidden away. Father is quite good at that, after all.”

Cahir does raise his gaze at that, finally appraising the man before him. He tosses the quill onto the desk in front of him, then steps around until he is just in front of Julian. “Yes, indeed. Lieutenant Pankratz -- with your mediocre service record, your obviously purchased commission, and clear disdain for military service, I am assigning you watch command. Arrange for shifts, maintain discipline, and do as you are instructed.

Your impudence is noted, and you _will_ learn respect. You are dismissed.”

Julian salutes, turns on his heel, and exits the cabin.

“I did not _flee_ , Shani. I left with all the dignity of a lieutenant in the Royal Navy,” Julian says haughtily, picking at his stew. 

“I saw you come out of that cabin like the husband of the woman you’d just bedded was chasing you. There was no dignity in sight.”

Julian narrows his eyes at her. “Have you met with him yet? Cahir? Somethings not right with him. He seems a bit--you know, cruel and awful.”

“No, not yet. Though...” She takes a sip of the mead in her tin cup before continuing. “We’re not three days out of port, and I’ve already been tending to some odd wounds. There’s stuff on a ship you expect: rope burn, blisters, bruises, cuts, and splinters. It’s tough work.

But I’ve had two sailors in for burns -- really deep ones. I was thinking they were cook aides, but no. And we won’t be drilling explosives or arms until we are in the open ocean, right?”

Julian chews a particularly tough cut of, well, whatever meat is for dinner tonight. “You’re right. There could be some other explanation. The crew get up to loads of dumb stuff in the hold when no one is watching.” As he says it, he doesn’t quite believe it. Sailors, even deep in their cups, aren’t stupid enough to mess around with open flame on a floating wooden ship filled with artillery and explosives. 

“Maybe you’re right.” Shani says, though she still looks skeptical. “I’m going to keep an eye on it though. Any good Surgeon would.”

“Good. And you aren’t just any good Surgeon. You’re the best. At least, the best on this ship.”

The structured life aboard a ship of the line is efficient and mindlessly dull, made doubly so by the responsibilities of watch command. Four bells: start watch. Eight bells: change watch. Six bells: drills. And on and on and on. Julian catches Shani between watch some days; they find time for games of Gwent during meals, or a chat in the infirmary. There is disappointingly less time as a lieutenant for his lute, which stays secure in his chest with his notebooks, ink pots, and spare linens. 

As a second lieutenant, Julian is spared the affair of dining in the great cabin every night with the Captain and Commander, but there are occasional nights when his presence is required. By the end of the first week, the ship has cleared the coast and makes for open water and Julian is summoned. Julian joins Cahir, Stregobor, his fellow lieutenants, two lucky--or unlucky-- midshipmen, and the Sailing Master in the great cabin for supper. 

They dine on roasted meats spiced with herbs and salt, freshly baked bread with a flaky crust, and thick steamed pudding and dried fruit. Wine flows as easily as conversation, and boisterous laughter echoes around the room. Julian eats, glad to be feasting on something more than watery stew for the evening, and listens. 

When the pudding has been cleared and the wine glasses filled for another round, the Captain stands at the head of the table, and the rest of the officers fall silent. 

“Gentlemen, we sail to Skellige. There are reports of lesser pirates skulking the outer islands, and the Emperor has dispatched us to protect the good people of the Isles.” A smile curls to his flat lips. Cahir raises his glass and the officers around the table stand to join him. “The White Wolf’s ship has been spotted. And the rumor is he is carrying precious cargo.

“I don’t care how many ships we burn or witcher dogs we have to slaughter: Princess Cirilla will be captured and returned to Nilfgaard.” Cahir downs his drink in one throw, and the table erupts in hearty cheers. Stregobor, standing next to Julian, pounds his fist on the table. 

Julian slaps on his performance smile and tosses back his wine. 

_Well, fuck_.

*****

Gunnar takes care of loading the body into the skiff, his hands no longer shaking. Everything had happened so quickly. Picking the lock, finding the stash of crowns -- all of that had gone just as Syd had said it would. But the man came back from the pub early and then-- the struggle, the flash of a blade, the blood--

Syd comes around from the side of the house, wiping his hands on his slacks. There’s a full moon illuminating the night, and Gunnar can see his displeasure from the dock. “What are you waiting for? Get goin’.”

“I’m not going by myself. For fuck’s sake, you’re the one-- you’re the one who--”

“Yeah, I killed ‘im. So you go dump ‘im and we’ll be square.”

“I think you’re forgetting this.” Gunnar holds up the coin purse they pilfered from the house, and Syd’s face folds into a scowl. “Get in the boat, Syd. I’m not going out there alone, and then you’ll get your coin and we can be done with this mess.”

Syd’s shoulders slump, but he walks down the dock and steps into their skiff, and then they’re rowing out into the bay. The row in silence for a few minutes. Gunnar tries not to glance at the body sprawled at their feet. He fails. 

“That’s far enough. I don’t wanna lose sight of the shore. ‘Sides, there’s a fog rolling in.” Syd says, looking around. Gunnar feels a chill along his spine. He sets his oar inside the boat, and --

A lone, haunting howl dances over the fog that creeps ever thicker across the shallow bay. The howl fades out on a long mournful note and the night is still again. 

“Syd --”

Gunnar is interrupted by a chorus of howls. Two boats break through the wall of fog, just about the same size as theirs, and before Gunnar can even reach for his discarded oar, he and Syd are hemmed in on both sides. 

“Well, what have we here?” Eight witchers surround them, their slitted eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

Syd is gaping at the men in the boats, and it occurs to Gunnar that someone has to answer the question. “We are simple fishermen.” Gunnar hears his own voice rise higher in pitch and sees Syd nodding, one hand clutching the side of the boat. 

One of the witchers throws his head back and guffaws. “Fishermen without nets. Imagine that, Eskel. I’ve been alive a long time, but I’ve never fuckin’ seen that before.”

Gunnar cuts his eyes to Syd again. “Honest, we have no quarrel with witchers. We’re here to fish.”

“Should have thought of that before you came out to sea with — what are those, rocks? You’re here to sink a corpse with rocks?” Some of the other witchers in the boats laugh, leaning closer to get a better look. 

“Enough.” A figure near the stern of one of the vessels speaks, and the rest of the crew fall silent. He’s broad at the shoulder, and when he leans forward, the moonlight reflects off his white hair. Gunnar finds it difficult to meet his amber stare. “You’re aware of the Treaty in these parts? We don’t come ashore in the daylight, and you don’t do stupid shit like toss corpses in places that you shouldn’t.” Then, to a man in the other boat, he says, “Lambert, take one. Each.”

The boat carrying the white-haired witcher slips back into the mist, the _dip slosh_ of the oars fading into the quiet of the night. 

The witcher called Lambert stands. “Well lads, the Wolf has spoken. And you’re in luck - you’re getting off with a warning.” He steps between the gunwales of their two boats, sinking into a crouch in front of Gunnar. “Listen--we don’t mind that you’re murderers - or whatever the hell this is about - that’s your business. We just care that you’re bad at it.

Corpses in the shallows here, anchored by rocks? That’s bait. Attracts Drowners. Or worse. If you are getting rid of a body, make sure it stays buried. And stays dead.”

Gunnar swallows. Nods twice. “That’s--was that our warning? We’re free to go?”

A vicious smile cuts across Lambert’s face as he unsheathes a knife from his belt. “That was your lesson. Free of charge.” He reaches out and captures one of Gunnar’s hands before he can pull away, a strong thumb pressing into Gunnar’s palm to splay out his fingers. “Your warning will stay with you. The Wolf said to take one. And because I’m feeling generous, I’ll let you pick the finger.”

**Author's Note:**

> Coming Soon:  
> \- Pirate Moot: Geralt is Forced Into Leadership?  
> \- Captain Cahir: Pretty Much a Sadistic Bastard?  
> \- Julian: Too Soft For the Military, LOL?
> 
> Find out next time!
> 
> Also I'm on tumblr @shadeofthetrees if you want to hang out.


End file.
